Hot hot heat

This week I will be attending my father's 60th birthday, and so forgoing the weekly service. But Lauren and I attended something pretty spiritual today, and that is hot yoga, aka Bikram Yoga. I tried this a few years ago, but haven't been since. I do yoga on my own (or what I would prefer to call EK copyright yoga), and so I don't feel the need to pay someone to tell me what to do. But today was free yoga day, so Lauren and I ventured over to the temple of sweat.

We got there a little early, so I perused some of the information available, including an interview in Yoga Journal with Bikram Choudhury, the dude behind the phenomenon. He is spectacularly egotistical and, apparently, likes to sue people who teach yoga classes similar to his.

While I think the yoga is fine, it is boring and calculated, not at all organic. You hold every pose for a regimented amount of time, you only do certain poses, and you completely overwork certain muscle groups (shoulders, hamstrings) while ignoring others (biceps, abdominals). I love watching people's faces in the mirror as they struggle, and the incredibly hot, stuffy feeling that makes it seem like a real freaking accomplishment when you're done, covered in sweat and red-faced, hardly able to move. But the poses themselves? Eh. I like my yoga (EK copyright yoga, thank you very much) better.

What gets me more is the crass commercialism of the whole bizniz. I liked the yoga instructor, whose Sopranos-esque encouragement ("you can do dis, look at chou, that's just great") was a nice contrast to the usual mumbo-jumbo pseudo-spirituality that infuses most yoga classes. I liked a few of the poses, the instruction, the disregard for dimply thighs and stomach rolls exhibited by half-naked people all sweating together in a crowded room, but I still hate the whole idea of Bikram, copyrighted yoga.